by Lucy Auburn
I find my eyes drawn to where she stands on the left side of the room, with the other girls, her eyes on a boy standing across the divide: Leo Cooper, rumored to be her new boyfriend. Apparently it is possible to get over someone like Cole Masterson, especially when there's another handsome, rich young boy to replace him with. This one, at least, seems to have better manners.
"Alright." Taking a deep breath, I smile up at Hector and take my hand off his elbow. "I guess it's time for us to part."
"Good luck," he wishes me. "I'll see you later if your date turns out to be less than satisfactory. Although if I get to go out with Victoria or Toni..."
I snort. "Don't worry about me. I can handle myself. Worst comes to worst, I'll go stag tonight. Or be Tricia and Sasha's third wheel, now that they've officially declared themselves coupled up." I don't want to think about who Chrissy will pair up with if she doesn't like her date; I've seen enough of her and Tanner together for one lifetime. "Good luck, Sanchez."
"You too, Cooke."
We part ways, going to our respective sides of the room. My stomach is in knots; I duck away from the other girls, aware of a redhead in the crowd, a hateful smirk twisting up her lips. Already, I find myself eager for the semester to be over, and more than anything, to talk to my mom about whether or not she has space in her new apartment for me. A transfer back to Wayborne High sounds like just the thing the new year has in store for me.
I refuse to let Cole, Blake, Tanner, or their gang of bullies get me to drop out before the semester is over, but they were right: I shouldn't be here. This isn't where I belong—at all.
"Hey!" Sasha calls me over to a corner where she's sitting with Tricia and Chrissy, all of them with little flasks in their hands. "Over here."
I raise my eyebrows as I join them. "Imbibing already? This party has adult chaperones."
"It's just champagne and orange juice," Chrissy says, rolling her eyes at me. "Don't tell me that being a narc rubbed off on you while you were in the Rosalinds."
I bristle at her words, and pointedly say, "I keep people's secrets. Especially when they don't deserve to have mud slung in their faces publicly. Sometimes even when they do."
She blushes and turns away at my words, while the other two girls just look confused—and smitten. It would be adorable if I weren't painfully, bitterly jealous. At least tonight I'll get a date, no matter how terrible. I'm sure the Rosalinds put me with the homeliest guy here—that's fitting revenge from Holly, who won't stoop much lower than that. But at least it'll be a date, no matter what.
The announcement goes out. It's time to match our tokens. Slipping the little decorative envelope from my bag, I pull mine out and stare down at it, heart suddenly in my throat.
I got a glittering, golden snake on a background of black paper.
For the first time in weeks, the old snake bite scar on my hand pulses with just the barest hint of pain. I shudder, stomach in knots, wondering what it means. Then something else slips out of the envelope: a little note.
A snake for a snake.
Everyone around me is rushing forward to find out who their dates are. Even Tricia and Sasha seem excited; they're going to convince their guys to dance with each other and browbeat them if they don't. Chrissy, who's wearing a slinky low-cut dress, practically prowls across the ballroom to the other side.
Pairings are made. Matches occur. I walk through the crowd, shaking my head when boys ask me if I got the fox, or the dog, or the star.
Maybe I got no one.
Until. A figure pushes open the doors, and a murmur runs through the crowd. I know who it is on instinct, but I turn anyway: Cole Masterson, wearing a dashing well-cut fitted suit.
In his palm he holds out a golden snake on black paper. His eyes find me unerringly, and he closes the distance between us in a few short strides.
"I think this should match yours," he says. "Because I can't imagine what other girl at this school would be compared to a snake."
I open my mouth to tell him off, but then Holly's voice rings out on the microphone. "Alright everyone, looks like our pairings have been made!"
I glance over. Her eyes find me briefly, then Cole, and I realize: she did this. She set up the two people who betrayed her the most, because in her mind we must fit each other.
"It's time for the first dance. Remember: you can spend the rest of the ball with anyone you want, but this dance is for your match, whether you call it a date or just making a new friend. So let the music begin!"
Chapter 47
Cole takes my hand. I yank it out of his grip, scowling, heart beating like a big brass band.
"You're not supposed to be here," I point out. "Don't you have a murder to stand trial for or something?"
"No concrete evidence links me to anything," he responds calmly, as if that's a normal thing for a sixteen-year-old boy to say. No doubt he's said it dozens of times recently. "Also, you heard Holly. We're supposed to dance. Unless you're not capable of dancing—I mean, given your upbringing..."
Hatred pulses in me, making my cheeks flush and sending warmth to my fingers and toes. "I can dance, you fuckface."
Cole chuckles. "That's more familiar. If you're not scared, put your hand in mine, and your fingers on my shoulder. I promise it'll be over with quickly." As an afterthought, he adds, "People are watching, Brenna, so try not to stab me. I've heard you carry a knife."
I reluctantly do as he says and follow his lead, partially because it's getting awkward not dancing, but also because I'm insatiably curious. This'll be the first time we've really had a conversation since the night of the Hallow's Eve Festival.
"Who told you that I carry a knife? Wait, let me guess—your little friend Hass."
"Hass isn't my friend." Cole leads me effortlessly in a spin, along with the rest of the room. All the blue bloods seem to know this slow waltz, and I have to admit that the steps are simpler with his fingers guiding mine and his warm hand on my waist. "Hass and Lukas used to be friends. They spent some time at the same British boarding schools. But then things, shall we say, changed."
"How?"
"That's his business."
I frown. "You and your friends sure do like to gossip just enough to whet the appetite, but not enough to sate it. Why bother bringing part of a story up when you won't make it to the ending?"
He raises a brow at me. "Who else has whetted your appetite for gossip, little snake?"
"Lukas. He said there were some things only you could tell me."
"Ask me, then. I'm an open book."
Somehow I doubt that. Even his journal only has passing mentions of his life, mostly concentrated on schoolwork and his girlfriend. It's like he expected it to be found and read.
But if he's offering information, then I'm going to ask for more. "Apparently something happened between you and Chrissy Lakewood."
"I think you mean Leila Sanders," he says. "Or didn't she tell you her real name?"
"I thought you were joking when you said she changed her name."
He shakes his head, green eyes dancing. "I never kid about these things. If you'd stuck around to ask questions instead of climbing into that tree like it was your business, maybe you would understand why I loathe that dreadful girl."
"Tell me now. Make me understand."
A shadowed expression passes over his face, and for a moment I almost think he might leave me in the middle of the dance floor. Instead he tells me a story.
"I have a sister. She was sick when she was little, so sick even my parents—who have every resource imaginable at their disposal—were afraid that she would die. But she didn't. She got better." His voice grows soft. "She's witty, talented, bright, and absolutely perfect in every way."
I'm the one who adds, "And she's deaf."
"Yes. That's part of her perfection, you see." His hand tightens on my fingers briefly. "About four years ago, Leila Christine Lakewood-Sanders was up to no good in my parent's vacation house. My sister saw her steal liquor
from my parents' bar—a particularly meaningful bottle of scotch that was my great-grandfather's dying gift to my mother. So Katherine told my parents about it."
It's not hard, for some reason, to imagine little twelve-year-old Chrissy stealing booze. "And? What happened?"
"She was banned from the property for a year. A fair judgment. But apparently she didn't like that, so she snuck up on my sister when she was by the pool, took her hearing aids, and shoved her into the water. Katherine was only nine years old at the time."
I suck in a startled breath, but he's not done. There's more to the story.
"Because she was scared, my sister screamed for help. Her voice is perfect, but some people say otherwise." There's a swift note of condemnation in his voice for anyone who might dare insult his little sister. "All the other girls at the pool party called her slurs and mocked her. At school, for months afterwards, they imitated her voice. Up to then she'd been speaking through a sign language interpreter and taking speech lessons at home, in private, but she gave up the entire idea of talking from then on, and my parents just... let her. Now she only speaks to one person: me."
My heart hurts more than I could've imagined before this story began, and I find myself staring straight up into his startling green eyes. "I'm sorry."
"You should be. I was going to leave her purse up there for hours."
There's a note of humor in his voice, but I can hear other things, like the kind of anger that doesn't die easily. An anger I feel in myself as well, raging hot as a fire.
I'm about to say something else, but the song ends, and our first dance is over.
I have no reason to stay here in his arms.
No reason to tighten my fingers on his hand.
I try to remind myself of other things: the way he treated my brother, who was the one who sold drugs, not the one who gave them to Mariana; his DUI, which clearly was covered up; the body in that trunk, a girl who deserves answers; and most of all, the way it felt when he dumped dirty water on my head and told me I don't belong.
But my heart betrays my better instincts. I like the way this feels. For the first time since I came to Coleridge, standing here in his arms, I almost believe there's a place for me here.
Then he drops my hand and turns towards the front of the ballroom. My eyes follow the direction he's looking. The microphone Holly made the announcement into is still there, and the music has tapered off so someone can speak, but it's not Holly who steps up to the mic.
It's Georgia Johnson.
And I don't like the look of the smile on her face.
"Before things get underway, I wanted to give a special announcement. From us at the Rosalinds," her smile grows sharp, "to one of our former members."
My stomach drops. Looking over at Cole, hands twisting in my skirt, I beg him, "No."
He doesn't look at me. "Watch the performance, Brenna. You need to know the consequences of your actions."
"Why do you want me so badly to leave?" I ask, in a voice that's softer and weaker than I'd like. "What have I done that makes you hate me so much? Is it because I'm poor?"
Georgia has pushed a button on a little remote control, and a screen is dropping down behind her. There's a murmur going through the crowd; people don't understand what's going on. Even Holly looks clueless and curious.
But I know.
And I feel their gazes.
Blake's cold, incurious stare.
The triumphant expression on Tanner's face.
Something sad in Lukas's eyes, like this isn't what he wanted.
And Cole, looking straight ahead, sure and confident in his actions.
They're going to do everything they can to destroy me. They don't seem to know that I've already been hollowed out in the middle, my heart stolen and buried in a coffin next to my brother's bruised body.
I can handle this. I can face it.
It's like I said: let them do their worst. No one reasonable will hate me for my brother's name, or for the accusations against him. I'm standing next to a boy who is accused of drunkenly crashing a car with a body in the trunk.
If he gets to stay at Coleridge, despite everything, then I'll buckle down and stay too. Even though I hate it here. Even though it's not where I belong. I'll stay just to prove that I can.
I dig my hands into my dress and force my eyes forward, putting the most neutral, uninterested expression on my face. It doesn't matter that all my friends are about to find out that I'm a liar. I don't care. I don't care.
"Ah, finally. Our screen is ready for the show!" Georgia throws up a hand in celebration, turning on the projector, which puts a shockingly familiar photo up for everyone to see. "Let's meet Brenna."
It's a picture of six-year-old me, gap-toothed and freckled, my arm thrown around my brother's shoulder. I can hear people wonder: why is someone who isn't even one of the Rosalinds anymore getting a slideshow dedicated to her? Is it her birthday? It was, in fact, a few weeks ago on November 8th, but that was Brenna Wilder's birthday; Brenna Cooke was born in the middle of April.
My thoughts are racing.
"You may think you know Brenna, but you haven't heard it all. Did you know she has a twin?"
I move, blindly, back from the screen as another photo shows up, one that makes my heart twist. Cole reaches out and grabs my elbow, holding me tight, keeping my close.
He leans in and murmurs in my ear, "It all ends now if you promise to drop out."
"Never," I vow, already imagining myself graduating from Coleridge in a cap and gown. "Just tell the administration that I lied about my name if you want me out so bad."
"No. I want you to leave voluntarily. It's the only thing that will work."
Why, why, why. I don't understand why he hates me. I don't understand why he wants me to leave so badly.
Another photo. This time we're older in it, and you can recognize him as he looked this year, before his death. Tears gather in my throat at the sight of him. The murmurs get louder; people are starting to figure it out.
"You see, Brenna here is really..."
I tune her words out. They don't matter. I know what she's going to say: awful things about me, worse things about my brother. She has pictures that I thought were private, but that's the internet for you.
I can't stop thinking about that day. He looks so much like he did when he died. Suddenly I'm not here any more. Instead, I'm standing outside in the middle of the storm.
The sound of his body when it hit the ground. The knife in my hand as I cut him down.
"Brenna over here—or should I say Brenna Wilder—is a real piece of work. The type of person to stab friends in the back and steal from them."
There's the sound of thunder, and I can't tell if it's from my memory of the day my brother killed himself, or if a storm is breaking outside. I feel untethered from my body. Somehow I manage to yank my arm out of Cole's grip and stumble through the crowd.
Mom's face twisted in grief. Daddy turning away, getting in his truck and leaving us.
I hear a commotion. The mic is taken from Georgia's hand in the middle of a sentence. She was saying something about liars and frauds; my ears are full of echoing crashes, my vision blurred by tears.
Bruises on his chest. Ones I put there because we fought. Slipping in the mud. Crying until my body felt empty.
Briefly, I hear Holly's voice in the microphone. "Stop it! I told you I didn't want to go after her for one stupid mistake."
The snake in the grass. Its bite making me feel something, finally. The hollowness inside. The fire that filled it.
Always kind, that Holly. I wish she would do something to make me hate her, because maybe if she did, I wouldn't feel so bad about what I've done to her.
His body in the coffin. Bruises on his neck, covered with makeup.
I see them. Sasha's shocked face. Tricia shaking her head. Hector staring at me with furrowed brows. My friends, discovering I'm a liar. Looking at my face and seeing my resemblance to him.
My heels slip off my feet as I run full-out towards the front doors, but this is no Cinderella moment. No one will be gathering up my shoes to chase after me. There's no fairy tale prince in my future.
I hit the doors of Coleridge Center and rush out into the dark of a stormy evening. Rain pours down in sheets, and lightning splits the sky wide open. Taking the steps down as fast as I can, bare feet smacking on the slippery ground, I embrace the storm.
Let it rain down on me, ruin my hair and makeup, and destroy the dress I bought with another girl's money.
I'm missing half my heart. I'd forgotten until I saw his face projected on that screen, but Georgia Johnson reminded me what I've lost. Silas. Silas, who wiped my tears away, chased me through the river mud, taught me the constellations in the long grass, then died on a summer day when the cicadas were singing their song of life, life, life.
I can't seem to breathe. For the first time in ages, I'm actually crying with grief. Full-out, heaving sides, sobbing like a child, tears streaming down my face, crying.
I hear steps behind me. I know it'll be him. This started with him, and it'll end with him. It's as inevitable as the rain splattering on my face.
"You were supposed to leave." His voice carries over the sound of the storm. "That's not the only thing you did wrong, though."
"What else are you talking about?" I whirl around to face him, impossibly angry. "I've done nothing wrong to deserve this."
"Other than stealing from my ex?" He raises a brow. "Who was nothing but good to you. But no, that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about your little fixation on me. The one that went so horribly awry."
He advances on me. Thunder crashes, lightning flashes, and I jump—because of the storm, or because Cole grabs my arms and drags me towards him, anger in his bright green eyes.